


talking business

by anarchetypal



Category: Game Grumps, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, GTA AU, Joel Narrative, M/M, is that an established tag? it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 21:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6487651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchetypal/pseuds/anarchetypal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“<i>Stop fucking talking<i></i></i>,” Joel grates out as he moves forward, and by some miracle, Brian does. That’s probably because Joel reaches out and grabs him by the shirt, jerks him forward hard enough that he hears stitching strain and snap in Brian’s shirt as he crashes their mouths together in a kiss that’s more bite than anything, lacking finesse or grace or care but <i>god</i>, Brian shuts up, that’s all that matters; he shuts up and bites back, makes pain burst sharply in Joel’s mouth like pop rocks, like cheap plastic explosives.</p>
<p>And, well. At this point, it’d be rude not to follow through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talking business

**Author's Note:**

> aka that fic nobody asked for about a pairing that doesn't exist

It’s—look, the important thing Joel wants to get across is that this wasn’t his idea, okay?

He’s not really sure whose idea it _was_ at this point, to approach Brian Wecht to get the Grump crew to collaborate on a heist, except, hell, it was probably Adam’s, just on the basis of how horrible things seem to be going for Joel right now.

“I’m not armed,” Joel says on the tail end of a sigh. “Much,” he adds, shrugging, when one of the guys checking him over runs a fingertip over the fabric of his jeans through to the handgun strapped to his ankle, because _honestly_.

He feels his shoulders hunch automatically, protectively, when they finally let him by, skin prickling in the wake of being touched even through his clothing. He licks his lips.

It’s half past two in the afternoon.

He’s glad when he makes it into the building, Los Santos sun beating down relentlessly on his back being replaced by a cool wash of air hitting him in the face and gradually seeping through his shirt. It makes it easier to keep his voice even when he breaks the silence.

“Goonies keeping watch at the back door?” he asks, keeping his fingers hooked in the pockets of his pants so he doesn’t fidget or lean against anything, not too casual or too uncomfortable in equal measure. “Is this a bad eighties movie?”

“That’s the look I’m going for,” Brian says, looking up from where he’s leaned against a table that’s got a map spread out on it, and his expression is so open that Joel’s not sure if he’s being deadpan or pretending to be earnest or _actually_ being earnest. “You don’t like it?”

Wecht’s eyes are _frustratingly_ blue.

“Oh, it’s—it’s great,” Joel says, because what else can he say? “I love being felt up by strangers. It’s a personal hobby. Of mine.” He’s pretty sure Brian is smiling, and that’s—that’s the _worst_ , actually. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” he adds, because he needs to get to the point before he shoves his entire foot and ankle into his mouth in front of God and everyone.

“‘We,’” Brian echoes, like he doesn’t believe it, which is insulting but also probably true, Joel’s not sure, he’s lost track at this point.

“We,” Joel says again stubbornly. “We— Adam, mostly. Probably. Definitely.” Adam is usually a safe bet. Adam is always trying to organize things.

“You’ve been trying to get in touch with _me_ , or with _us?”_ Brian asks him, and it takes a minute to figure out what that means.

“You,” Joel says, and blinks. “You. Collectively. You guys. Your—crew. Thing.”

Brian is definitely smiling.

Joel is one hundred percent sure he doesn’t want to kiss him, but also, it would be sort of cosmically unfair to not wreck the fucker right out of his stupid fashion crime of a shirt. And Joel, he wishes this was new, that this was a sudden misguided wave of want brought on by not getting laid recently enough, but Joel’s known Brian and his crew for a while now. Long enough to know better. Long enough to talk himself out of wanting to grab Brian and _bite_ , work a bruise deep into his throat until he stops smiling and starts gasping.

Not, of course, that Joel thinks about that kind of thing on a regular basis, when he’s doing things like putting a hit out on somebody or holding up a bank or driving the weighted end of a blackjack into the soft part of somebody’s stomach until they’re doubled over, breathless, choking, bleeding out from the inside—because that would be sick and a little depraved.

Joel is so focused on that thought that he entirely misses Brian’s response.

“What?” he says blankly.

“Why not Arin?” Brian repeats patiently, but he’s smiling still, and Joel hates Brian and himself and everyone. “You came to me. To a secluded warehouse—in the middle of Blaine fucking County—to tell me…what, exactly?”

“Well,” Joel temporizes.

“Don’t lie,” Brian adds, like a command, and Joel’s hackles raise instinctively, if weakly.

 And Joel’s not _flustered_ , okay, he’s not, but he’s really torn between fucking Brian up and just plain fucking him. “That’s— It’s—”

And Brian, evidently, can read fucking minds, and the guy’s so fucking infuriatingly smart that Joel shouldn’t even be surprised, and but so he says, “I mean, what did you want to tell me, other than you wanted to hook up?” and Joel chokes on air.

“ _What_ ,” he coughs out, “ _No_ ,” like he’s appalled at the very idea and not really, incredibly up for it, not hopelessly glad Brian said it before he did. “No, I—”

“You what?” Brian demands, folding his arms over his chest, waiting.

“We can’t— We can’t fuck around,” Joel tries, and gestures vaguely for a few moments. “I’m here to talk business,” he finally settles on, because they’re in a professional goddamn setting, which is a joke, and which is bullshit, because Joel’s pretty sure he’s never fucked somebody while _not_ in a professional setting. A ‘professional setting’ in their business is always either blatantly breaking the law or talking about breaking the law, and so really what’s the worst that screwing around can do to that kind of professionality?

“ _Talk business_ ,” Brian repeats, grinning widely now. “Is that right. This is a business meeting.”

“Is this—is this not how you conduct your business meetings?” Joel says, because he’s mostly given up now on acting professional, if he was even trying in the first place.

“Me? No. You took a page out of Dan’s book,” Brian says wryly.

“He— No, I’m older, I was here first,” Joel says stubbornly. “ _He_ took a page out of _my_ book.” And that—that makes it sound like he and Avidan have fucked, which is, no. No. Goddammit.

“Are you using that as a euphemism now?” Brian asks, because of course he fucking does.

“Stop.”

“I’m not complaining. It’s just a little unorthodox. I’m just saying you need to clear these things with me first so I don’t get confused.”

“ _Wecht_.”

“About whether or not you want me to fuck you.”

“ _Stop fucking talking_ ,” Joel grates out as he moves forward, and by some miracle, Brian does. That’s probably because Joel reaches out and grabs him by the shirt, jerks him forward hard enough that he hears stitching strain and snap in Brian’s shirt as he crashes their mouths together in a kiss that’s more bite than anything, lacking finesse or grace or care but _god_ , Brian shuts up, that’s all that matters; he shuts up and bites back, makes pain burst sharply in Joel’s mouth like pop rocks, like cheap plastic explosives.

And, well. At this point, it’d be rude not to follow through.

——

That’s essentially how Joel ends up on his knees, throat working as he presses his nose against soft skin and short hair—which, alright, not an overly rare occurrence in and of itself, except this time it’s Brian’s cock he’s struggling to swallow down around, and, yeah, that’s different, that’s new, but Joel’s quickly deciding it’s not bad at all.

Especially not with Brian’s hand on his face, gentle but impossible not to notice even with Joel’s eyes shut tight as he focuses on not coming in his pants or something equally as likely to make Brian unfairly smug—Brian’s hand on his face, thumb tracing over Joel’s I-haven’t-shaved-in-a-week jaw, facial hair patchy and sparse and speckled grey.

And so Joel’s hard, rocking in little aborted motions against nothing, against frustratingly empty air, trying not to think about how his knees ache or how Brian’s making these low, quiet little noises that drift and go thin in the empty building.

And Joel—Joel’s going to _come_ , there’s no fucking way he isn’t going to come, which shouldn’t, that shouldn’t be a thing at his age but it is today, he’s going to make a mess of himself before he manages to get Brian off, and then Joel’s going to _murder_ Brian because Brian’s going to say nothing but look _incredibly_ smug with his stupid, smug face, and Joel will lose his fucking _mind_ , and—and—

And then Brian’s fingers move to knot into Joel’s hair and _tug_ , and that’s the only warning Joel gets other than a sharp intake of breath before Brian’s thrusting up shallowly into Joel’s mouth and spilling against Joel’s waiting tongue down his throat.

Joel doesn’t choke, but it’s a close thing. His hands come up to grab at Brian’s hips, less to stop Brian from moving and more to anchor himself, and he’s almost glad for the shock of it; Adam’s always warning him before he comes, like he isn’t prepared to swallow no matter when it happens, like that’s not half the reason he sinks to his knees in the first place.

Brian sighs as he shifts back, tugs Joel’s head up and away as he moves to lean up against the wall behind him. Joel stays on the floor where he is, a little dazed, working his jaw and catching his breath as he hears Brian doing the same above him. Belatedly, he looks up, pleased to see a flush on the apples of Brian’s cheeks, his eyes a little glassy. Breathless. Sated.

It’s a good look on him.

There’s a part of Joel that’s disappointed, if only a little, that he doesn’t have the chance to get off the way he really wants to, if he’s honest—Brian’s hand in his hair, bending him over some dubiously-stable surface and fucking him hard, their clothes still mostly on, Joel dragging Brian’s other hand forward and up to cover his mouth to partially cut off his air, make sure he doesn’t cry out into the warehouse and alert god knows who the fuck to what they’re doing.

The mental image makes him pulse warmly where he’s still trapped in his jeans. “ _Fuck_.” His voice is rough, catches mid-word, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yeah,” Brian says, and Joel glances up again to see Brian staring at him, a spark of heat in his eyes despite his casual tone and unhurried motions as he tucks himself back into his pants. “That was…”

“Amazing?” Joel supplies. “Phenomenal. It was, it was incredible, I think, is the word you’re looking for.”

“Unsophisticated,” Brian finishes.

“ _Unsophisticated?_ ” Joel echoes, outraged.

“Adolescent,” Brian continues musingly, smiling like he’s not being an insufferable shithead. “Lacking a certain _je ne sais quoi_.”

“Lacking a certain— It’s not my fault I had to fight your fucking, your fucking _coke can dick_ , okay, I think I handled that pretty well, I think that was _great_ , actually, I happen to be pretty fucking good at that, ask—”

“Ask anyone?” Brian cuts in, smile turning shark-like, and that really shouldn’t be making Joel _harder_.

“ _People_ ,” Joel says, “ask _people_ , I can give a blowjob, I give _great_ blowjobs.”

“I’m sure you do,” Brian says, but he says it like he’s trying to placate Joel, and that’s it, Joel’s going to, he’s going to commit murder today, he’s going to start an all-out gang war with the Grump crew because Brian Wecht insulted his blowjob skills.

Brian’s hand lands in Joel’s hair again, doesn’t grab, doesn’t pull, just strokes through the strands a few times, and fuck if it doesn’t send a calm little white-noise hum straight through Joel.

And then Brian pats the side of Joel’s face and turns and starts walking away.

Joel sways on his knees, blinking, thrown off. “I— What.”

“What?” Brian asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder, casual as you please, what the _fuck_.

Joel’s still hard. It’s three in the afternoon, and Joel’s on his knees on a dirty warehouse floor, and he’s still hard. “You,” he says, gesturing vaguely at his clothed dick with his mouth open slightly. “Aren’t you going to—something?”

Brian turns to face him completely, one hand resting back on the doorknob. “We can’t fuck around,” he says, exaggeratedly solemn, eyes wide like he’s appalled at the idea, and this time he’s definitely just pretending to be earnest. “We’re here to talk business, Heyman. This is a _business meeting_.”

The door clatters and echoes in the open expanse of the warehouse when it swings shut.

Joel doesn’t move for a minute, dazed, staring at the door like he can will Brian to walk back through it purely with his mind. Eventually, he swears, getting to his feet, staggering as his legs ache in protest.

There’s dust and grime on the knees of his pants.

When he gets back, Adam takes one look at him and doesn’t stop laughing until he’s grabbing at the wall, wheezing, half doubled over as Joel scowls.

He’s stepping into his shower less than twenty minutes after that, because he feels fucking disgusting, feels the dirt of the warehouse crawling into his pores—that’s the excuse he makes to Adam and himself and the fucking universe.

That’s the excuse he makes and holds onto valiantly until it falls hopelessly flat as he fucks into his own hand, steam clouding around him, free hand stuffed into his mouth so he can bite into the soft part of his palm and not let his own low, desperate moans ring out.

He gasps towards climax with his head bowed and his eyes shut tight, water dripping off his eyelashes, absolutely not thinking about Brian’s thick fingers pressed tight against his throat, choking with increasingly more pressure as he presses into Joel and fucks him hard until Joel comes nearly untouched, squirming on Brian’s cock, lights exploding behind his eyes as his vision greys at the edges—and he comes in reality when he realizes he’s holding his breath, comes over his own fingers as his knees buckle dangerously, comes damning Brian to all holy hell.

He’s fucked, basically.

——

It’s not until another couple of weeks pass that Joel sees Brian again, around a table filled with representatives from a small handful of crews they’ve been working with recently.

Brian’s wearing the same shirt he was wearing last time, the exact same fucking one, and he has to be doing it to distract Joel, because he’s a sadist, alright, he _has_ to. And Joel’s distracted, because he can’t not be, and so he spends the entire meeting paying exactly zero attention to what’s being said and instead just staring at Brian and his fucking bullshit mess of a shirt, and that’s how he notices it.

It’s not an obvious thing. The tear in Brian’s collar is slight, easily overlooked, but Joel remembers grabbing at Brian and _pulling_ , remembers the faint sound of cloth ripping, and fuck if Joel doesn’t spend the whole rest of the meeting looking at that little tear and wondering if Brian left it there intentionally, wonders if Brian wears that shirt and fingers the tear and remembers Joel causing it, wonders—

Joel wonders, mostly, if Brian will come home with him if he asks. If he presents it like a challenge. If he kisses Brian filthy in some secluded corner and then walks away, leaving Brian to follow like a shark chasing blood in the water.

Brian finally locks eyes with him to the tune of a thousand little electric shocks straight to Joel’s brain, and his grin is so sharp and so infuriating and so full of intention that Joel doesn’t have to wonder much at all anymore.

Adam is going to be _pissed_ with him for ducking out of the meeting early.

With Brian’s eyes hot on his back, though, gaze thick with promise, Joel can’t really find it in himself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> if you do the tumblr thing, i've got a writing/inspiration blog here: http://anarchetypal.tumblr.com/


End file.
